Neon Sunrise

For the second time since Schlatt’s death, the first time since his funeral, Quackity is having a cigarette. He stands in the center of an empty street, the tar so fresh it’s still black. The casino is fucking silent: the only sound is the bugzapper crackle of the neon. The tip of the paper flares blue and his mouth tastes like burning wood. Las Nevadas is pristine and perfect and empty. He has everything he’s dreamed of but he’s all alone. His white shirt is rumpled, discolored with blood stains he hasn’t bothered to clean. What the fuck’s the point, if he just adds more every twenty-four hours?Footsteps startle him out of his skin. A second silhouette under the gas lamp, and a soft tap on his shoulder. “Hey, old friend,” says Wilbur Soot, fond smile audible in his voice. “Got a light?”*** Wilbur and Quackity help each other out.